We'll Call Her Hamish
by LyricalSinger
Summary: John's innate kindness brings a small change to 221B, much to Sherlock's chagrin.


A/N: This all came about from a discussion with my brother about vacation which somehow morphed into 'could you imagine Sherlock's reaction if …' which then led to him giving me the final sentence. I laughed out loud!

As always, thanks to my beta sarajm.

* * *

We'll call her Hamish

It was raining … what else was new in London? So of course John Watson - exemplary Boy Scout, Army Doctor, colleague to the world's only Consulting Detective, the man who took the phrase _Be Prepared_ as a personal motto – was trudging home from his shift at the clinic, miserable and soaked through to the skin.

It was all Sherlock's fault.

The World's Most Annoying Flatmate had decided to torture his violin until about 3:15 a.m., when an irate Doctor yelled down the stairs for Sherlock to "quit it, or so help me …!" Instant silence. John sighed loudly as he returned to his bed; he'd need to be up again in less than 3 hours. So naturally he slept through his alarm. Fortunately for John, the trash collectors were their usual noisy selves or Lord knows when he would have awoken.

After the world's quickest shower and three sips of Sherlock's scalding hot coffee, John grabbed his coat and his keys, thundered down the stairs and flew out the front door of 221B at a run. Luck, like the sun that morning, was shining on the poor, dishevelled man: his Oyster card actually worked first time, the Tube wasn't jam-packed with commuters and lost tourists and he made it to work with two minutes to spare.

As John barrelled in the front door of the clinic, the receptionist Nancy looked up from the file on the desk in front of her and burst out laughing.

"What?" asked John, rather self-consciously, as he looked around to see what prompted the hysterics.

"Did you look in a mirror before you left home?" chortled Nancy with an unbecoming snort. "Your hair looks like you've got a small hedgehog perched on your head, I can tell from here your jumper is on backwards and you're wearing one glove! Let me guess – Sherlock up to his usual antics?"

"Oh, God, Nancy you just don't want to know!" said John as he ineffectively attempted to pat down his hair, after having removed and stuffed his sole glove into his jacket pocket.

"Go get yourself organized, John; you've got time. Your first appointment hasn't arrived yet. I'll even bring you a coffee, if you want," said Nancy with a fond smile as she stood up from her chair and made shooing movements towards John.

"Nancy, if you weren't already engaged, I'd marry you," answered John with a sigh of relief. "And yes, a coffee would be heavenly, ta."

John only had a half-day, and things had gone quite well despite the morning's disastrous start. All his patients were on time, no major or life-threatening illnesses and the two kiddies that needed their jabs didn't scream or cry or try to bite him.

A little after one o'clock, John said his farewells and headed out of the clinic towards home. The sun was no longer shining; in fact, the clouds were grey and ominous-looking and the wind was starting to whip up. Zipping up his jacket and turning up the collar, John quickly made his way to the Tube, hoping all the while that it wouldn't start raining until he was safely ensconced in his chair at home.

Stepping out from the Tube station, John saw that his hopes had been thwarted by Mother Nature as it had started raining. He didn't have his umbrella, and he would be damned if he'd take a cab the four blocks to home! Instead, he just hunched his shoulders up around his ears and started off at a brisk military pace towards the flat.

Of course, the minute John stepped out into the weather, the heavens opened and rain began pouring down, reminiscent of Niagara Falls during the spring thaw. It was raining so hard the drops were bouncing off the sidewalk, drenching John from his knees down. He could barely see a foot in front of him and the rain _hurt_. The pellet-like drops were pinging off his head with such force that John was convinced they were drawing blood.

John only had about a block to go when he couldn't take it any more and quickly stepped into small gap between two buildings; a gap that was partially protected by the overhanging eaves. He was still getting rained on, but at least the force of the pummelling had lessened.

As he stood there, watching the rain and, for the first time in his life, wishing that one of Mycroft's ubiquitous black cars would show up to ferry him home – hell, he'd even take one of the man's damn umbrellas at this point – he heard a noise, almost like a squeak.

Looking around, John didn't see anything. There were a couple of soggy cardboard boxes just behind him, but they wouldn't account for the noise. He was just about to step out into the rain when he heard the noise again and looking down, John saw the saddest, wettest, most pathetic-looking kitten he'd ever seen.

The small, shivering animal stared up at him with big, blue eyes, opened its tiny mouth and let out a barely audible _mrrow_ as if saying, "Can you help me?"

John's heart melted … yes he may have been a soldier and yes he may have survived some terrible things in his life, but babies of any sort were his Achilles heel. Slowly crouching down, John held out his hand and murmured, "Poor little thing. Are you lost? Where's your mum?"

The tiny kitten sniffed delicately at John's fingers, then proceeded to butt its head against the side of John's hand, purring loudly all the while. When John gently stroked the kitten's head, its eyes closed and then it all but leapt into the man's arms. Picking up the bedraggled animal, John couldn't help but hold it close to his chest in a futile attempt to protect it from the rain. The kitten nudged its head under John's chin, gave it a little lick and then settled down comfortably against his chest.

"It's all fine, little one. You're coming home with me," said John as he shifted the kitten so it was now safely buried beneath his jacket. Stepping out into the rain, John hurried the rest of the way to 221B, all the while talking to the little creature who was purring and putting out an amazing amount of heat that warmed John's chest.

"Now, first of all," said John, "I have to warn you about my flatmate, Sherlock. I don't think he likes pets, so you won't be able to stay with us; but I can at least give you a warm, dry place to stay tonight. But you're going to have to be very good and stay away from his experiments. I'll figure out a litter box and you can sleep in my room for now. But then we'll have to find you a good home because our flat is not safe for such a little thing as you. So, just remember, be good and be quiet and everything should be fine. Okay?"

The kitten just continued to purr, which John took as an "Of course, John. I'll be very good and I won't bother your lunatic flatmate."

Seconds later, John stepped in the front door of 221B and almost knocked Mrs. Hudson to the floor. She was stooped down with the broom and dust pan and John didn't see her on his entrance.

Reaching down with one hand, John grasped Mrs. Hudson's arm and said "Oh, Mrs. H., I'm so sorry. I didn't see you. I didn't hit you, did I?"

Straightening up, Mrs. Hudson smiled at her lodger and said, "No, no, John; I'm fine. The door opening just startled me. But look at you; you're soaked through and dripping on the floor. You just stay there and I'll get you a towel."

Returning quickly with a garish orange and lime-green striped towel, Mrs. Hudson took another look at John and noticed a tiny little bit of fur poking through the top of his jacket. "Um, John … what is that?" she asked as she pointed to a spot just under John's chin.

"Oh, I know, I'm sorry. I know the lease says 'no pets' but I found this little guy on the way home. He was lost and soaking wet …. I couldn't just leave him in the rain. I hope you don't mind?" While he was speaking, John unzipped his jacket and pulled the sleepy kitten out from its warm hideaway.

Surprised at the light and the relative coolness of the air, the kitten slowly opened its eyes and blinked blearily at Mrs. Hudson.

"Ohh, what a sweet little thing," cooed the landlady as she quickly relieved John of both kitten and towel and quickly had the small animal cocooned in terry-cloth warmth. John couldn't help but smile; the kitten was now warm and comfortable, even though _he_ was still soaked through and dripping.

"Actually, John, I've no problem with pets. I only put that clause in the lease because while I know Sherlock would never intentionally hurt an animal, if he got a pet he'd be just like a six-year-old. He'd be _I'll feed it, I'll walk it, I'll take care of it_ but when the Work calls, he'd run off and who'd be left to take care of the animal? Me! And I'm his landlady, not his pet-sitter."

John had to laugh … he'd often thought the same thing about his flatmate. Sherlock may be a brilliant man and his best friend, but John had no delusions about the Detective's attention span when it came to 'real life' situations.

"Well, Mrs. Hudson, the cat's only going to stay until I can find it a good home, assuming, of course, that it's okay with you."

"That's fine John. And you know, I probably still have some cat litter hanging around from the winter. It's so handy for gritting the stoop when it's icy out and I don't think I used up the whole bag." Handing the towel-wrapped feline back to John she added, "You go on upstairs and get yourself into some dry clothes. I'll be up shortly with some tea and biscuits and the litter. Go on, dear!"

Smiling fondly at his landlady's retreating back, John gathered the towelled bundle close and made his way up the stairs to the flat. _What am I going to tell Sherlock?_ he thought, glancing down at the tiny face peering up at him. _Damn it, I'm a grown man and if I decide to rescue a kitten, then so be it. He'll just have to adapt for a couple of days_. That thought made John snort out loud. "Sherlock" and "adapt" were two words that he never thought he'd utter in the same sentence!

Arriving at the top of the stairs, John whispered down at the kitten, "Remember what I told you about being good." Squaring his shoulders, John stepped through the doorway to an empty room. Not seeing his flatmate, John called, "Sherlock, I'm home. The weather's horrid. I hope you haven't used all the hot water because I want to take a shower and warm up."

Sherlock's voice came from the kitchen "No, I haven't used all the hot water; and yes, I know the weather is horrid. Forgot your umbrella again, did you?" The scrape of the chair legs against the floor heralded Sherlock's appearance in the kitchen door. "Go, have your shower and I'll put the kettle on," he added.

John turned to head up the stairs to his room, the towel-wrapped kitten quiet in his arms, when a shout sounded. "STOP! What is that _thing_ you've got in your arms? A cat? No. No, no, no! No pets, John. Especially no cats! Find somewhere else for it, preferably not 221B!"

"Sherlock … what's the problem? It's a kitten. It's soaked, it's lost and I'm sure by now it's hungry. I can't turn it out in this weather; it could _die_! Besides, I'm not keeping it. I'm just giving it somewhere to sleep tonight and I'll find a home for it tomorrow. So relax, it will stay in my room and won't bother you or your precious experiments."

Shocked by John's forceful response, Sherlock tried again, "The lease, John. We're not allowed pets. What if Mrs. Hudson finds out … she could toss us into the street!"

John laughed at that one. "Seriously Sherlock? If our dear landlady hasn't already thrown us out because of your 3:00 a.m. concertos, the accident with the bleach, the three separate kitchen fires or the bullet holes in the wall, I don't think one little animal spending one night is going to send her over the edge! Besides, I've already spoken with Mrs. Hudson and she's fine with it. In fact, she's bringing me some litter so I can set up a place for the kitten to do its business."

On discovering that his demand had been stymied, all Sherlock could say was, "Its 'business'? What are you, six years old? You're a doctor … can't you just say somewhere that _thing_ can defecate?" With a sniff, the Detective spun around and plunked himself back down at the table and proceeded to peer intently into the microscope lens.

"Don't worry, little one," John cooed to the bundle in his arms, "he's just grumpy because Mrs. Hudson took his skull again. Come on, let's get you dried off."

After having dried the kitten, taking a look that confirmed 'it' was a 'she', and leaving her asleep on his bed, John grabbed his wash bag, his towel and a dry set of clothing and headed down the stairs to the shower.

Passing by the kitchen, he could hear his dark-haired roommate muttering to himself under his breath. John was quite sure he heard the words "cat", "nuisance", and "flea ridden" but paid his friend no mind. He was cold and wet, and it was all Sherlock's fault. If he hadn't been 'playing' his violin at all hours, John would have had a decent night's sleep, would have woken when his alarm had gone off, would have been able to hear the day's weather report and, ergo, would have brought his umbrella with him. All he wanted right now was a nice hot shower, a cup of tea and some peace and quiet.

John was dressed and drying his hair when he heard a yell from the kitchen. Fearing his friend had injured himself, or worse, the flat, John dropped his towel to the floor and skidded out of the loo in his bare feet.

"What's wrong? Are you bleeding?" he cried.

"JOHN! Get this THING away from me!" came Sherlock's indignant response.

Standing in the doorway to the kitchen, John surveyed the scene in front of him and couldn't help but chuckle. Apparently he hadn't closed his bedroom door as tightly as he thought because the kitten had somehow managed to make her way down the stairs and through the sitting room. She was now perched on the edge of the kitchen table, well away from Sherlock's paraphernalia, and was watching the agitated detective with large blue eyes.

Stepping over to the table, John picked up the kitten and spoke to it in that high-pitched tone of voice that normally sane adults use when speaking to babies and animals, "How did you get down here? Were you looking for me? I told you I was going to have a shower and then I'd get you some food."

The kitten sat perched in John's arms, still staring at Sherlock, and when she heard the word "food" rubbed her cheek against John's arm.

"Ohh, you're hungry. I'm so sorry, little one. Just hold on a tick; I'm pretty sure there's a can of tuna here somewhere and I'll get you some water too."

Sherlock was now staring at his friend like he'd lost his senses. What in the world was John doing talking to that interloper in that sickening-sweet tone?

"John," said Sherlock, "you do realize that thing has no idea what you're talking about? And why are you speaking in that manner?"

"What manner?" mused John absently as he rummaged one-handed around in the cupboards looking for the can of tuna that he knew was there somewhere. "A-ha," he exclaimed as he spotted it hidden behind a box of rusks. _Why do we have a box of rusks?_ he wondered as he pulled out the can opener.

Not being able to both hold the cat and manipulate the can opener, John glanced around looking for someplace safe to place the kitten while he got her dinner organized.

"Not me," stated Sherlock quite firmly as he stepped back. "You want it, you figure it out. And _don't_ put it on the table; it will only contaminate my results."

"Oh for God's sake, Sherlock. It's a cat, not a syringe full of bubonic plague! Just take it for a minute … please?"

A "Hoo hoo" preceded Mrs. Hudson's entry, laden tea tray in her hands and a bag of litter hanging off one arm. "Here you are, boys. And I found the litter, John, so you should be all set."

"Mrs. Hudson, you're a wonder. Would you mind holding the kitten for a moment while I get her dinner together?"

Mrs. Hudson eagerly reached for the little fluff ball and holding her close, gave her a good once-over. "You know, John, she's really quite a lovely little thing now that she's dry. Such pretty markings and those eyes! Have you named her yet?"

"No names!" called Sherlock from the sitting room where he was now indulging in a massive sulk. "We're not keeping it, so there will be no need to name the thing. Besides, it's a cat … it's not like it will come when you call it."

"Now, Sherlock, don't be like that. I had a friend, oh, years ago, who had a cat that not only came when you called, it also played fetch like a dog. Just give this one a chance, I'm sure she'll grow on you."

"Like a fungus," muttered Sherlock under his breath.

"Here, have a cuppa, and I brought you some of those chocolate biscuits you like so much."

* * *

And so began Sherlock's torment at the hands … paws … of a four-legged creature that barely weighed 1.5 kilos.

Sherlock was between cases, his experiments with the pigs' livers and the bird feathers were not going well, Lestrade had not called him in days and he had no inclination to leave the flat. Instead he lay around in his pyjama bottoms, t-shirt and dressing gown and moaned constantly that he was "BORED John!" And, to make matters worse, the kitten had become enamoured with the lanky detective and had taken to following him around the flat. The minute he stopped moving, she twined between his ankles; if he flopped into his chair, she quickly settled herself on the arm rest; if he sat in front of his microscope, she perched beside him watching his movements intently.

In fact, the cat was such constant presence that Sherlock had actually gotten quite used to having her around; she was an excellent replacement for his skull. Mind you, he would never let John know that he was coming to accept the creature. After his statements when she first arrived, there was no way Sherlock was going to back down about keeping a pet. Rather, he kept up his complaints about the animal simply to ensure that John didn't become complacent and decide unilaterally to keep the kitten. Still, she was sort of cute …

A week had passed and despite his best efforts, John had not been able to find a home for the kitten. He'd asked everyone who worked at the clinic, several of his older patients, their regular messenger; he'd even approached the pharmaceutical company representative who showed up with samples of their newest drugs. Everyone oohed and aahed over the photos he'd taken with his phone, but the answer was always, "I'm sorry, but no."

Discouraged, and beginning to think that he'd have to take the kitten to the RSPCA, John let himself in the front door of 221B and trudged up the stairs to the flat. He could hear Sherlock's baritone, but couldn't make out what he was saying. _At least he's not in his Mind Palace for once_ thought John, though he was willing to bet that Sherlock had spent the last hour talking to him, even though he wasn't home. Some things never change!

Stepping though the door into the flat and removing his jacket, the doctor heard, "John, I told you, don't touch that."

"Don't touch what? I just got home," he called to his flatmate as he hung his jacket on its assigned hook.

"Not you, John. This John," came the very confusing response.

Walking into the kitchen with a bemused look on his face, John saw Sherlock sitting in front of his microscope with the kitten perched beside his elbow. Holding back a smile, he instead said, "Do you mind explaining your cryptic sentence?"

Looking up from the eyepiece and blinking in the bright light, Sherlock said, "What cryptic sentence? I thought I was quite clear."

"Oh really?" drawled John. "You said, and I quote, 'Not you John. This John.' As I'm the only John in residence, I'm not sure what you meant."

Sherlock stared at his friend for a moment and then said, "Ahh, _now_ I understand your confusion. When I said 'don't touch' I wasn't speaking to you. I was speaking to John."

The doctor simply looked at his friend like he'd lost his marbles. "I'm John," he said slowly and precisely, now worried that the genius may have accidentally damaged some portion of his brain during one of his experiments.

"Oh, for God's sake, John. Stop looking at me like I'm an idiot. I was talking about _this_ John," he said as he gestured to the kitten sitting beside him and watching the goings on around her very intently.

"Wait … what? You named the kitten _John_?!"

"Well, you certainly hadn't made any attempt to give it a name and I couldn't spend my time calling it 'it', so … I've named it John. It's an elegant solution, don't you think? I only have to remember one name."

"First of all, Sherlock," responded John in an incensed tone, "there's already one John in the flat and that's me! I refuse to share my name with a cat simply because you can't be bothered to remember another name. And second of all, the cat is a female. Thirdly, I am _not sharing my name with a cat_!"

"Goodness, John. There's no need to throw a fit! Fine; we'll call her Hamish and be done with it," said Sherlock as he turned his attention back to his microscope, effectively cutting off the discussion.

"Hamish? No … just no! There is no way we are calling the cat Hamish! Sherlock, are you even _listening_ to me?"

An absent hum was all the response the flustered ex-Army doctor received. Throwing his hands up in despair, John looked at the kitten, who was now watching his antics with what could only be described as an amused look on her face, and said, "I hope _you_ like the name _Hamish_!"

A contented mrrow was all the answer he got.

Several weeks passed and John effectively gave up trying to find a home for the kitten, who now responded to the name Hamish (to John's everlasting chagrin). Sherlock had grown accustomed to the animal though he still, on occasion, complained that the creature was 'disturbing my thought processes with her infernal purring' and both John and Mrs. Hudson were enamoured with the newest resident of 221B Baker Street.

Hamish was a clever thing, and she soon learned what to avoid in the kitchen. She stayed away from the tabletop unless Sherlock was there to point out the safe place for her to sit and while she would often sit in the doorway to Sherlock's room, she never entered without permission.

John, on the other hand, was not quite so lucky. Hamish had decided that whatever was his was hers as well, so she would often be found curled up asleep on one of his jumpers; in fact, John began buying lint brushes in bulk just to try to keep the cat hair under control. It was almost impossible for him to enjoy the paper any more because as soon as he sat down, he found himself with a lap full of cat. She may have been a little thing, but somehow Hamish managed to take up plenty of space when she felt the urge.

After her first bath – an event John never wanted to relive – it turned out that her fur was actually a very light grey, almost white, and she had two darker spots over her eyes. Mrs. Hudson doted on her and was always picking up treats or toys while she was out doing her shopping. She'd even knitted a tiny little blanket for Hamish to sleep on because "the heat isn't always what it should be in this old building and we don't want her to get cold now, do we?"

"What about us humans," muttered John to Sherlock as Mrs. Hudson cooed over Hamish and her new bed. Sherlock didn't say anything, but the grin that suddenly appeared on his face was enough to make John start to giggle.

"I think that's enough, Mrs. Hudson," said Sherlock as he began herding her out the door. "What with all the toys and treats, and now a new blanket, I think you're quite spoiling the thing."

"Oh, that's rich coming from you," said John with a smirk as Sherlock closed the door behind Mrs. Hudson's retreating form.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Accusing Mrs. Hudson of spoiling that darn cat. Who insisted that she be fed a particular type of raw food that we can only buy at one store a twenty-minute cab ride from here? And who has brought home foie gras for her because she was 'looking sad'? And who got background checks done on four different vets before finding one that was acceptable? I can tell you it certainly wasn't me."

Sherlock had the grace to look to look slightly embarrassed but he quickly began to explain how if they were going to be responsible cat paren … _owners_ … they needed to be sure that they were giving their charge the best possible care.

John just laughed and waved away the comments saying, "Just admit it Sherlock. You've become attached to the cat."

"I am not _attached_ , John. Don't be ridiculous! I'm simply trying to set up a routine and provide the best possible care for the animal."

"You keep telling yourself that, Sherlock; it's all fine," said John with a laugh. "I'm off to get milk and bread. I'll be back soon."

It was about an hour later when John came home, arms laden with Tesco bags. As he entered the front door, the silence struck him. Hoping that Sherlock had finally fallen asleep - the Detective had been awake for at least 32 hours that John was aware of - he quietly made his way up the stairs and went straight into the kitchen. After putting away the groceries, he peered into the sitting room to see if Sherlock was there.

Sure enough, the Detective was stretched out full length on the sofa, obviously lost in his Mind Palace. Hamish was curled up on the man's chest and Sherlock's long fingers were resting gently on the cat's back, stroking her fur occasionally.

"Great," said John with a rueful smile. "I'm rooming with Dr. No!"


End file.
